


Mistake

by DarkAislinn



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Affairs, Anger, Angst, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAislinn/pseuds/DarkAislinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: She made a mistake. She thought she loved him. Choices are never easy, especially for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistake

**Author’s Notes:** I had a fleeting thought for this and just ran with it. It has nothing to do with my current story, but I do hope that everyone enjoys it.

 **Disclaimer:** I own and claim nothing. 

 

 

 

I'm waking up to ash and dust  
I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust  
I'm breathing in the chemicals  
  
I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus  
This is it, the apocalypse  
Whoa  
  
I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones  
Enough to make my systems blow  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive  
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive  
  
I raise my flags, don my clothes  
It's a revolution, I suppose  
We're painted red to fit right in  
Whoa  
  
I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus  
This is it, the apocalypse  
Whoa  
  
I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones  
Enough to make my systems blow  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive  
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive  
  
All systems go, the sun hasn't died  
Deep in my bones, straight from inside  
  
I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones  
Enough to make my systems blow  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive  
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive

Imagine Dragons, Radioactive. 

 

* * *

 

She sat on a bench, watching the passers-by with her bag slung over her shoulder and waited for him. It was their routine; they would always meet in this this spot, the one where they first met. Her bag was packed for her four day weekend and as always, she tried to supress the guilt, her husband had questioned where she was going, in case he needed her, and she lied, always lied.

She had married not realizing it was the wrong man, not realizing it was a mistake until it was too late. Instead of openly breaking his heart, she began to coordinate these rendezvous’. If he had suspected something, he hadn’t said anything. Or, maybe, he truly believed she was blissfully happy with their marriage.

He wanted to start a family and she had shied away from the idea. Not because she didn’t want one, oh no, but because she didn’t want one with _him_. When she had met up with him again her feelings had become confused, a jumbled mess and she had made a rash decision, that broke the heart of the man she had ever truly loved, to be with someone else, someone she had _thought_ she loved and she hated herself for it.

It was difficult to make love to her husband as she always pictured another man; always feeling another’s touch on her body. Eventually, to avoid love making, she had to create excuses as to why she didn’t want to. He hadn’t questioned her in the beginning, but only nodded, a sad look filling his eyes. She hated that look. She hated the guilt that came with her betrayal more than anything.

In the beginning she was happy, or so she thought. The first few years were nice, quiet and comfortable even. He loved her, he took care of her and they had served together. She had kept in contact with her crew, meeting them when she was able but she always sought out the one she had hurt, and it was easy, so damn easy since he was still on the Normandy, spending more time with him than was necessary.

Her husband, in the beginning, before she had decided to have this affair, had asked about him, asked why she spent so much time with him and outright asked if she was “fucking him”. She told him no, that she wasn’t and at the time it had been true.

She wasn’t old per se, she was forty-five, and humans lived to be damn near one-hundred and fifty but with her upgrades she would nearly live to be almost two-hundred and twenty-five which she was happy for as that meant more time.

After the war, once she had recovered from her injuries she had married him, on a whim, in some church located outside of the ruins of New York. Her eyes had scanned the crowd, desperately searching for him, hoping he would show up and put a stop to it, but he didn’t. She should have known that he wouldn't show. At the time she had felt mortified at her own thinking, but now she understood why she had wanted him there.

Surprise couldn't even begin to descibe how he had reacted when she had accosted him. She had been blunt, told him everything, not holding anything back. She had never been one to be vague or speak in riddles. He wasn’t thrilled about their relationship, but he never said anything to her, maybe for fear of losing her again, she didn't know for certain. He didn’t have to say anything, she knew what he was thinking, she always did. She knew he hated sending her back into the arms of another man, hated that she wanted to keep this a secret.

Feeling a warm body sit next to her, she half-turned, and barely had to glance to know it was him. This was their routine after all. She would sit here and wait for him; he would open his omni-tool and send her a message so it looked ordinary, normal even. She wouldn’t check it right away, give it a few minutes so it didn’t look suspicious, then open it and she would walk off, knowing he would follow.

But he didn’t send her a message, which forced her to look at him, curiosity filling her eyes, pulling her brows down and a frown creased at the corners of her mouth. He was sitting there, elbows on his knees, bowing his head and he spoke to her.

“I can’t keep doing this.”

Panic slithered through her.

“This isn’t fair to him, to you or me.”

The pain of his words seized her, squeezed her heart and it was difficult to breathe. She had to tear her eyes away from him, she had to get away; she was a runner, always had been when things got rough. She didn’t say anything as she stood up, quickly walking down the corridor.

She had a feeling he would follow, her feelings were always right. She _was_ Commander  ** _fucking_  **Shepard after all. She followed the winding corridor to a darkened area when she felt his hand grab her forearm, spinning her around to look at him and his eyes, his beautiful eyes, bore into her. She swallowed, hitching her bag higher up on her shoulder and mentally scanning for easy esacpe routes.

“No,” his voice rumbled, low and quiet. “I will _not_ let you run away again. That's what got us into this mess in the begining.”

He stepped closer, pressing her back against the wall and his eyes narrowed, looking at her face. She looked away from him.

“Look at me!” Her eyes snapped back to his and she felt herself crumbling.

 _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_ , she wanted to say. _It was supposed to be_ **us** _in that stupid church, but you didn’t fight for me, fight for_ **us** _. You let me marry_ **him _!_**

“You have to choose between us. I can’t keep living like this, seeing him constantly on the Normandy and knowing that he is touching you,” he reached his hand out, stroking her face with such loving devotion that it took her breath away. Her eyes fluttered shut and she pressed her face against his warm, rough hand, hands that had seen too many battles, held too many weapons. God, she couldn't get enough of him, even after all these years. 

“Kissing you,” he wrapped his fingers around her chin, forcing her face up and pressed his lips against hers. Her chin trembled, her eyes stung and she couldn’t breathe.

“Making love to you,” he spread her legs with his, pressing his hard knee against her center. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to dissipate as she snaked her arms around his neck, bringing him closer to her but he pulled away putting a foot of space between them. It caused her physical pain for him to be so far away, yet so damn close. 

“Me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to hide his shaking hands from her view. “Or him.” She shook her head, shoulders slumping and let the tears falls, splashing against her cheeks.

“I can’t,” she whispered. "You _know_ that." He growled and grabbed her shoulders, slamming her back up against the wall.

“Yes,” his voice was in her ear, his breath was hot on her neck. “You can.” She cried out, not from pain, as his fingers dug into her arms and sobbed.

“You know I can’t!” she repeated. 

He grunted in disagreement, pressing his face into her neck and tugged her skirt up, spinning her around and bent her over, forcing her palms to the wall to keep her balance. His zipper slid down. She felt him probe her entrance and she bit her lips when he slid in, exhaling through her nose, eyes sliding shut in the pleasure.

“Does he feel like I do?” She moaned his name, her nails scratching the wall. He pumped into her, hitting her spot; that sweet, delicious spot that he could always find. Her husband still couldn't find it.

“Does he fill you like I do?” His hand grasped her shoulder, his nails digging into her skin.

He was nothing like her husband. Sex with her husband always left her wanting more, needing more, but never with him. The sheer size of him was enough to send over the edge and he growled at her orgasm, slamming his hips into hers.

“Does he,” he panted, jerking her head up by her hair, bringing her back up against his chest. “stretch you like I do?”

She clenched around him, her hand finding purchase on her clit. “Oh,” she moaned, her breathing hard and fast.

“Does he make you,” he grunted, his mouth nipping at her neck. “as wet for him?”

“No,” she groaned, admitting this to him seemed something of a confession, but she knew he needed to hear it and she needed to say it. He pulled out, turned her around and pressed her back against the wall, hoisting her legs up around his hips and slammed himself into her, rubbing himself against her.

She grasped him, hooking her ankles together, pulling him in deeper. She could never get enough of him, even after all these years she would never tire of his body against hers.

“Can he make you come for him, like you do for me?” he asked as another orgasm hit her, her body trembling, her body spasmed around him.

His lips found her neck, his body rocking into hers, pounding her, drawing out a deep cry from her throat. Her fingers worked themselves into his shirt and her mouth sucked at his neck, groaning and grinding against him, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Does he make you feel like I do?” She shook her head, her mouth never leaving his neck. His hand grasped her hip while the other thumbed her nipple.

“Fuck,” he growled, spilling himself inside of her, slamming against her again, bringing her to another orgasm as his teeth sunk into her neck, his spot, claiming her as he had so many times. She bit him, forcing a deep, thundering noise from his chest. They relaxed like that for a few moments, trying to catch their breath and slow their hearts. 

He pulled out, zipping himself up. Her body felt like jelly and he let go of her but despite the pain, she wanted his hands on her again.

“You have to choose.” She pulled her skirt back down and refused to meet his eyes, closing them and hung her head, fat tears splashing down her cheeks.

She had never been this weak woman before, but only could he do this to her. When they were on the Normandy it was easy to slide into her Commander facade, but this, being with him, was different.

She opened her eyes and watched him turn, angrily striding away from her, back in the direction of where they came from and she reached out, grabbing his arm, feeling the muscles tense under her fingers.

“Garrus,” she cried. “Please.” He jerked his arm out of her hand, barely glancing at her.

“No. I’m done.”

She let him go. Let him walk away from her. She couldn’t hurt Kaidan.

_You fucking coward._

She leaned her head against the wall, shaking her head at the words. It wasn't true. She saved the entire fucking Galaxy.

_He’s going to find someone else, a nice Turian woman and be happy; they'll have kids and he'll love her._

The thought shattered her, left her breathless and feeling like a bonless heap of human mush. She pictured him, old and silver with a faceless Turian female standing by his side with unknown Turian children running around them.

_No! I can’t, not again._

Quickly she grabbed her bag, threw it over her shoulder and sprinted to catch up to him. She scanned the crowd, her eyes moving expertly, as if on a battlefield, and spotted him. He was nearing the elevator. She had to catch him.

She pushed people out of her way, getting annoyed looks and angry grunts.

“Garrus!” He turned, an unreadable look on his face.

Images filled her head, fueling her fiery need to get to him.

_He was standing at the top of the Presidium, speaking with the Executor; an angry look on his face about the fact that his investigation was being closed._

“Move,” she pushed at a large Krogan female, sliding in between her and an Elcor.

_He was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, gasping for breath, gripping his rifle; his eyes looking at her in apology, believing that he wouldn't be with her until the end, a spoken testament true to his thoughts leaving his lips._

“Dammit!” she cried angrily, shoving a human male out of her way. “Garrus!” He was still standing there, his eyes watching her.

_He looked at her, his eyes filled with sorrow at her words, his heartbreak written all over his face at the fact that she was ending their relationship but accepting it wordlessly, pulling back and making a joke about calibrations._

_“_ Get out of my way,” she growled, knocking over a Turian woman. She was so close.

_You should have done this sooner._

Six feet.

_What if he won't take you back?_

Four feet.

_You would deserve it._

Two feet.

She threw herself at him, his arms opening to gather her to him, his hands sliding over her hair as her hands caressed his fringe, their lips meeting, hungrily taking in the other.

There were eyes watching them, but she didn’t care; not caring about anything about the Turian in her arms that she had loved for years. She opened her mouth under his, wrapping her arm around his neck. His hands splayed across her back, lifting her up against him.

He pulled back, smoothed the hair away from her face, his eyes searching hers. “I couldn’t let you go again,” she whispered, running her hand down to lay it on his chest over his heart as she took his and rested it above her fast beating one. “I love you. I've _always_ loved you, Garrus Vakarian.” She touched his face, running her finger of the scarred area lovingly and tried to convey with her eyes at how much she meant her words. 

“Jane?”

Her heart dropped, her stomach clenched and she turned slowly at the voice of her husband.

Time to face the music. To own up to her mistakes. To try and make things right.

It wasn’t something that she was good at, but she had to, at least, try for Kaidan's sake, for her sake and for the sake of everything she had fucked up. 

And maybe, for once, things would be okay. 


End file.
